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Easter Rising - Prelude
For All Nails #267A: Easter Rising - Prelude By Noel Maurer, Dan McDonald, and Henrik Kiertzner ---- :Río Negro :Somewhere near the Río Negro-Guayana border :15 March 1977 "Puto! It's hot." "Yeah, Frank, it's hot. Any other words of wisdom for us today?" "I'm an unhappy man, y I don't like bugs." Frank Calva and Sebo Quezadas were back in action. Which wasn't what either of them wanted, of course. Unlike these overeager young Tory idiots, Frank and Sebo were reservists in the Mexican army, and they had the soldado's proper dislike of anything that involved danger or discomfort. Which was, of course, why they had been put in charge of this "camp" out in the Rionegrense selva, near the border with what had once been the Reino de Nueva Granada, and which the British had now given the euphonious name of "the Occupied Territory of Guayana (status pending)." Neither of them had any desire to be there. Sebo had gone back to California in June. Adapting to civilian life was difficult. He managed to publish an article, cobbled together out of his old notes. "What did Kramer's Men Really Do?" had practically flown through the review process at the Review of Economic History. It proceeded to make a splash. "The first explanation for El Pulpo's nineteenth-century growth that makes economic sense," had written one of the reviewers at the REH. A rewrite with one of Sebo's old advisers, Esteban Más, was now in the review process at the Trimestral Review of Economics. A TRE article could get him tenure. He should have been happy. Instead, he had been insanely depressed. In a fit of madness, he and Lucia had gotten married in Los Santos upon his return. The honeymoon didn't last. He and Lucia soon began sniping at each other. She got on his nerves, he got on hers. Yet he couldn't bring himself to throw her out, and she couldn't bring herself to leave. Arguments, shouting, followed by the best sex in his life. What did it say about him that he couldn't get out of this? Only he could. When the occupation of Grão Pará went ahead, men with tropical experience in a hostile environment were in high demand. Cuba and Panamá. Not only that, but Sebo had experience working with the Tories. He was offered a promotion to captain. This time, his dean had been less happy, but what could he do? Lucia cried, she wailed, but Sebo couldn't help but think that she liked the drama. And since the great state of California would, by law, make up any difference between his Army salary and his professorial one, her standard of living actually would rise. In the week he was due to leave, she had announced that she was pregnant. Anyway, Sebo had found himself in Grão Pará, feeding the Marines. That was alright. The work in Grão Pará made Sebo feel good. "Applied Masonism," the Tories called it, but it was nice, helping people. It was better than in Panamá, where about the only aid the soldiers gave the local economy was buying booze and "helping" their "girlfriends." Although Sebo also had a girlfriend in Santarém. He had the grace to feel bad about it. And while he had no doubt that their unborn baby was his -- neither of he nor Lucia would or could cheat when he was in California, the sex was that good and that frequent, along with the fights -- but he assumed that Lucia was also cheating on him when he was away. He could contemplate that with equanimity. He also knew that if he was ever presented with evidence of any infidelity, he would track the man down and beat him to a bloody pulp. Or at least try. Thus the unspoken arrangement: Don't ask, don't tell. A good policy for every military. His Parense repast didn't last. Soon he found himself in Manaus, and then in a teeby with his old friend Frank Calva, driving into darkest Río Negro, to a fucking clearing in the middle of the selva. It was a Tory supply dump. The Tories were moving simply incredible amounts of materiel into Guayana. Hell -- there had been chargers moving through here. And massive quantities of ground-to-air missiles. Hundreds of Tories here, hundreds more in nearby camps, and God only knew how many over the border. And the Tories had not got a clue how to manage it all. They lost enough stuff in transit every week to outfit an entire goddamned battalion. Thus, Sebo's presence. He was supposed to help the Tories sort out the mess. Frank, meanwhile, was here to help the Tories out with something they seem to have neglected -- fuel. It wasn't that they had forgotten it: it was that they didn't have enough tanker trucks, and they didn't use the ones they did have efficiently. Their supply system was just plain inadequate. In fact, Sebo had heard one Tory staff major in Manaus actually say "there's plenty of fuel in New Granada," when trying to explain the planazo. FN1 So the Mexicans had agreed to supply the trucks -- suitably repainted -- and Frank was up here to tell the Tories how to use 'em right. A paper pusher and a hose jockey. Couldn't run a goddamned Army without 'em. The Tories called 'em camp followers, and tried to keep 'em to a minimum. Or worse yet, use civilians with no combat training. They didn't have a pinche clue how to run a real fighting force. Sebo looked at all the men and equipment headed north across the border. "Y'know, Frank, how the hell do the Tories pretend that they're not at war?" "They have practice at it," grunted Frank. "Y we were supposed to be in a War Without War?" replied Sebo. "Loquesea." Frank stopped the teeby. "Now, don't you have some 'splainin' to do?" "To you? I outrank you, brokepenny," responded Sebo. "No, you fucking moron. That stuffed shirt the Tories have encargado with this desmadre." "Frank, the only 'splainin' I gotta do to him is how to do his fucking trabajo." "That's what I mean." ---- :Somewhere in Guayana :1 April 1977 Captain Reynaldo Ruíz of the FANG sat down in his newly hoisted tent. His company finished their movement a whole hour ahead of schedule. This made him happy. His XO, Lieutenant Enrigue, handed him a package full of files. Ruíz broke the seal on the envelope that had accompanied it. He knew what the package contained. His men were going to get three volunteer officers, and Ruíz had asked for their personnel records. Like many in FANG, Ruíz wondered why the colonial descendents of their enemy would join the New Granadan cause. He knew the standard explanations. Guilt over how their neutrality caused the Global War. A fear of the National Renewal Party and the intentions of the United Empire. The personal popularity in North America of New Granada's CNA-educated sovereign. And, in his favorite explanation, that all of the above had been brilliantly manipulated by the Mexicans. Anyway, Ruíz had argued that for his company to be effective, he would need to know who was joining them. His superiors, understanding Ruiz's concerns, sent him the files -- marked as eyes-only. He opened the envelope and browsed the records. All three were Lieutenants of the North American Air Force, and graduates of the Confederation Air Force College in Marlborough City. All had been in New Granada for over a year, and all had seen combat during the final English push to Bogotá, just a couple months ago. The first one to catch his eye was the woman. This might be a problem, but since she was an officer, he figured the discipline of rank would be enough to keep most of those problems in check. Thank God this was an all-FANG unit: some of his compatriots commanded mixed FANG-EJLN detachments, but those were always front-line. Support was too important to entrust to some ex-Jeffersonista hotheads. She was the most academically gifted of the three, and had chosen to go to the war over high-prestige space pilot duty. From the psychological reports, it would seem that her loyalty to her country, and to her friends, trumped everything. Ruíz speculated that all three graduated the same year, were close friends, and probably volunteered as a group. The second file was far shorter. He was the sixth child of a military family. All but one of his older brothers served time in either the Navy or the Army ... and that one was a civilian researcher in the Ministry of Defence. The alienist's report showed classic signs of youngest-child syndrome -- an overwhelming desire to achieve. Fighting in actual combat was be a quick way to show such achievement. Ruíz hoped he had found it already. Some young punk looking to "prove" himself was the last thing he needed. The remaining file was the thickest of them all. For this officer, the war was personal. His father had also been a soldier -- a war hero, in fact -- but his son had known nothing of the father's achievements until he was 17. His father was supervising a post-cease-fire weapons transfer off the coast of Iceland in 1952. A German submarine attacked, and the British ships defending the transfer turned and fled rather than defend the mostly-empty North American vessel. The father received the Royal Cross for valor, but the incident was hushed-up and remained a state secret until 1970. The man's mother died shortly thereafter, and he was sent to live with relatives in Manitoba who had hid all the facts about his father's career during his upbringing. He only found about his father's career when a letter arrived from the Ministry of Defence inviting him to apply to his choice of the military academies. This was a standard form letter sent to all Royal Cross legacies in North America, but it was how he had learned of his father's bravery. He was the best pilot of the three. Ruíz folded up the envelope's contents, ignited the whole package with a flick of his cigarillo lighter, and left the command tent. Captain Ruíz's company had, once again, followed their orders so efficiently that there was time to spare. Only the captain knew what was going to land on the half-hectare clearing. He overheard the men talking about "girópteros," and wondering what sort of gyropter needed on-board fuel tanks, 30mm ammunition, and air-to-surface rockets. A flock of birds disturbed the jungle tranquility, and then a whining noise interrupted the company's conversation. One of the men, who had a clear view across the landing mumbled, "¡Díos mío!", when he saw what was flying overhead. Three chargers flew over the treetops. What astonished the men was how SLOWLY they flew over them. In formation, they slowed to a crawl. Then even more slowly, they descended ... vertically. The men were along the periphery of the clearing. They all edged as close as they could get to this miracle without breaking orders. All three chargers, blowing up dust and mud furiously, landed on the cleared jungle floor. Once the engines cut off, Captain Ruiz ordered his men to attention. The North American pilots were opening their cockpits as he barked his next orders. "Soldados, acá miren el arma mas moderna de la CNA -- el Hummingbird. Tomen las escaleras y ayúdenles a las tenientes Stanford, Holmes, y Rupert en bajar de sus aeromóviles." ---- :Villa Hermosa, Guayana :5 April 1977 The sleepy hamlet, only slightly scarred by recent combat, dozed dustily in the Spring sunshine. The huge green-and-black-painted monsters of the Royal Australian Light Dragoons' vehicles -- sixty-five ton Goorkha ''class terramobiles-- were parked in the shade of the high, false-fronted main street, their crews asleep under large camouflage awnings, stretched across the vehicles, not for concealment from the air (the RNG Air Command having long since been swept from the skies by the Alliance), rather, for protection from the sun. The terramobiles -- slab-sided, seeming carved from solid billet, with four huge wheels per side and quadruple 2-inch pom-pom cannon mounted in flat turrets amidships -- were filthy and covered in the casual minor damage inevitable in combat. Here the star-shaped scar of a rocket attack, there a pockmarking of heavy machine cannon strikes, all overlaying the discreet, subdued pale-khaki-on-black Jack And Stars and the crowned leaper of the Regiment displayed proudly on the flanks of the enormous machines. FN2 The Officer Commanding A Squadron, whose vehicles these were, was standing in the doorway of the hamlet's only halfway respectable cantina . He was a worn figure, dressed in patched and faded jungle-green coveralls, the only sign of his rank the cracked officer's belt which supported an enormous Tower pattern .48 machine pistol on the left hand side and a vicious, two-foot long machete on the right, both in regulation brown leather holsters. He was smoking, with some relish, a New Granadan cigarro. Behind him, inside the cantina, could be glimpsed the tall figure of his Squadron Serjeant Major, similarly dressed, but with the four chevrons and King's Crown insignia of his rank roughly sketched on the sleeves of his coveralls in indelible pencil. Both men were watching with some interest the approach of a British officer who had just debussed from a 2-ton scout car, painted a subtly different shade of green-and-black, which had come to a halt outside the ''cantina, the dust of its arrival still settling around it. The driver was upright behind the wheel and in the back, a British private could be seen, erect behind two dual-mounted .36 machine rifles, their large ammunition drums fully charged and correctly mounted on top of the breeches. The British officer, dressed in the distinctive British mottled uniform, strolled across to the waiting Australians and saluted casually. He was alarmingly senior -- a full Colonel -- and both Australians instinctively straightened themselves, with the traditional Aussie deference to rank and position. "Captain Campbell?" asked the Colonel. "Sir." "Good. Your Colonel was kind enough to give my driver directions, but I fear we mistook our route and had a little trouble with some irregulars en route here. I'm Peter de Souza and, I'm afraid, your new CO -- your squadron has been detached to my formation. Here, this note from your Colonel gives the background." Campbell read the note which, as feared, explained precisely that -- the Squadron was detached to Task Force 23, commanded by Colonel Sir Peter de Souza KG, late First Foot Guards, until further notice and Campbell was ordered to place himself and his sub-unit at the Colonel's disposal. "Right you are, Sir. Would you care to step inside? Sar'major, would you be good enough to see to the Colonel's escort?" "Sir." Once inside the darkened cantina, it was clear that this was the Squadron's tactical headquarters. Etherphones and farspeakers were arrayed neatly on a long table, at which a Lieutenant and a Corporal were sat with a clear view of a huge map tacked on to the wall in front of them. The map was covered in shiny plastic and red and blue wax pencil markings were all over it, giving a clear view of friendly forces and enemy activity in the local area. The two officers sat down in a corner booth. The Colonel produced a notebook from his briefcase and flipped it open. "Right, Campbell. First of all, your name is Brian, have I that correct?" "Sir." "Oh, for goodness' sake, call me Colonel Peter, we're going to be working very closely together for a while. The job is this. As you know, the war is pretty much over. For now, anyway. We have indications that there is likely to be a flurry of Mano activity in the very near future, but are confident that it will be easily contained. FN3 We intend to use the Allied response to this activity as the occasion to close the supply routes the Pouffs and Yanquis are using to feed arms to the Manos. My unit, Task Force 23, has been tasked with ensuring that the Southern route is closed and remains so. To that end, we have two companies of Sikhs from the Free Indian Brigade north of here, a battery of light self-propelled gun-howitzers, two companies of Fallscreen Regiment chaps, with airlift, your squadron and roughly a battalion or so of Free Granadan Fusiliers. The only ones who will actually operate outside Granadan territory will be the FG troops, the rest of us will shoot them in and shoot them out. There will be a small number of specialist reconnaissance types with the FG chaps, so keep a look out for them. "All right so far? Good. Warning order, then. Time now 1230, no move before 1630, prepare to road move with all your assets. Here is the communications instruction, have your chaps join our net and be ready for orders at 1530. Any questions?" "No, Sir." "Good. I shan't take any more of your time, then, Brian. I shall see you later on, then. For now, fuel up, bomb up and pack up." "Sir." ---- Forward to FAN #267B (New Granada/American War): Easter Rising - Crack the Sky, Shake the Earth. Forward to 7 April 1977: My Empire of Dirt. Forward to Sebo Quezadas: Easter Rising - The Alliance Strikes Back. Return to For All Nails. Category:New Granada Category:American War Category:Sebo Quezadas